


Somewhere In An Empty Room

by MotelsandDiners



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Appreciation of Cars, DeadOC, Dean is Charming and Cute, F/M, Grieving, Memories of Good Times, Mutual Attraction, Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, References to Classic Rock N' Roll, Some Humor, Suicidal Thoughts, Tulips, Tulips for everyone except Sam, Underlying Hope, Unintentional Self-Negligence, light banter, moping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2018-11-04 04:46:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10983654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotelsandDiners/pseuds/MotelsandDiners
Summary: You really aren’t surprised you’ve put yourself somewhere public. You always think of killing yourself after a hunt, and you can never find any reason not to. So, you usually just plop yourself somewhere with frequent human traffic until the urge, the thought, dissipates.~ ~ ~ ~ *Jesus, he’s…a heart attack. Not a heart-throb, with that looks that dangerous ‘heart-throb’ just seems insulting. No, he’s everything your momma warned you about when you were a little girl running around in pastel colored sundresses. He’s everything every mother warned their daughters about.~ ~ ~ ~ *For two weeks, you hadn't bothered to ask yourself anything. You settled for breathing. But that moment he walked in, opened his mouth and placed his order, you wondered, Do I dare? You hadn't heard it at the time, but you asked yourself. Now, you look for an answer to a question you refuse to acknowledge. All while trying to keep your head above water with these new developments in your psyche, and these strange tulips that find their way to you.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know what you're thinking: Oh my God, here she goes, starting another story when her friggin' dashboard is full of unfinished stories. I know. I KNOW. Believe me. But what can I do? This story is here, and it's definitely something, so let's go on another journey together, huh? See where this story takes us?

She laughs heartily, head thrown back, eyes closed and he watches her with a gleam in his eye, lips stretched wide with mirth. They’re a cute couple, puppy-eyed for each other, compliment the other well. She’s short and petite, he’s tall and burly, she’s shy and polite, and he’s boisterous and confident. Maybe there was something about that saying ‘opposites attract’. If that’s the case, you have to admit there was nothing between you and him, because the two of you were so alike.

Some hipster in a beanie and checkered scarf coasts by you, the scent of his sugared and overly flavored coffee wafting to you. You grimace softly and stare down into your own coffee, black. It’s lukewarm to the touch, but somehow you know the coffee itself is cold.

You don’t know how long you’ve been here, nestled in the shadowy crook of a corner table, sitting under a dim hanging light. There’s no one across from you like there should be, like you’re used to there being. That all ended about two weeks ago, but somehow it feels like it just happened, outside the door the second before you walked in.

The weather has been nice lately, the beginning of spring tempering the air with coolness, tinging it with nostalgia of days passed, scents rolling through balmy breezes that make you remember your childhood. Nothing clear-cut, only emotions, feelings, the vague sense of scraping a happy memory with your fingernails: maybe it was a cookout, or a picnic, maybe the outdoor patio of some steakhouse? Who knew, the instances were so fleeting.

It was like salt in a wound, the vignettes of those memories, the barely there sounds, the swaying déjà vu. Because those days were dust in a desert, undefinable, indistinguishable really. All you could honestly remember anymore were hunts. The blood, and rush, the pain, the mounting desperation of tight spots, the sharp-edged slice of relief when you’d walk away alive, the weak celebration afterwards: a subtle, hidden agenda of wanting to forget. That’s what the alcohol was for: to forget.

You hadn’t had a drink in two weeks. You didn’t want to forget now. It would be rude, it would be cold and callous and selfish, and pointless.

The happy couple gets up, throws their trash away and leaves, glued to each other’s sides, starry-eyed and gooey for their other. Their other half.

You turn your cup in your hands, noticing the ripples in the center of the black liquid, the way they break and stutter, and you realize sluggishly that you’re shaking. There’s blood under your fingernails, around the cuticles, and you’d bet anything you’ve got dried blood on the bottom of your boots, caked in dust and small pebbles.

You settle back in your booth, the fake leather cool on your shoulders and back, and question the proprietor’s choice of music for the café. Something blues, but distinctly rock, like Led Zeppelin decided their songs could use more Parlor guitars, less bass, and add some shakers to the mix. 

There are a few more people in the shop, not many, after all, it’s early. Barely past 6 in the morning. There’s that hipster, sitting by a window so he can charge his laptop, and a couple college students dotting the farther tables, poring over notes with expressions that speak of their doubts in their chosen majors. You can almost hear them thinking: Is it worth it? Maybe I should become a stripper, and be done with it.

You really aren’t surprised you’ve put yourself somewhere public. You always think of killing yourself after a hunt, and you can never find any reason not to. So, you usually just plop yourself somewhere with frequent human traffic until the urge, the thought, dissipates.

You hadn’t experienced it before: the desire to commit suicide. Not once in your life. Even despite all the shit you’d been through, the things you’d seen, the things you’d done. Never. Not until two weeks ago. It was like the final straw, the last bit of pressure needed to break a dam wall you didn’t even know existed.

You had given him a hunter’s funeral, that was the only way to do it. The only right way. He died a hunter, a hunter’s death, so what else were you to do? You could’ve done something stupid, brought him back. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought long and hard about it. But in the end, you knew he wouldn’t want you to trade your life for him, he’d never forgive you. And anyway, you’re almost 100% percent positive he made it upstairs, climbed that stairway humming Led Zeppelin all the while.

Fuckin’ dork. Ten years hunting down evil with the wily bastard and he’s gone. Just like that. What did he say to you the morning of?

“Hey, Y/N, I’m thinking we should take a break from all this, you know, take a step back…enjoy ourselves a bit.”

You had scoffed, wondering where the hell this was coming from. He had been gung-ho about destroying evil ever since you met him, geared and ready and relentless, never tired despite the gray creeping into his temples. You had teased him about it when you noticed a few years back: “Shit. Now you really are Gray Keynes, got the hair to prove it.” You were promptly treated to a fuck you, and a smack on the back of the head.

Anyway, you had asked him what he had in mind, skeptical about how serious he was.

“I don’t know…maybe we could catch a few concerts-“

“What, are all the mullet rock bands going on tour?”

“…no.”

Yes.

You had grinned, pushed your tongue around the inside of your cheek. “Alright. We wrap this up, and then we’ll chase down all your long-haired boyfriends-“

He didn’t let you finish, launched himself out of the car to go to the trunk.

Well, he got his break. Not the way he wanted, but he got it. And you didn’t want a break, you didn’t waste a day. You hunted, as often as you could. Scoured the news and tabloids for strange stories like some people stalked celebrities on the internet: relentlessly, geared up and ready, invigorated.

Until after the hunt, you were all those things Gray used to be until you finished the hunt. And then you were dead, walking around with a heartbeat, blinking in the sun, turning your head in the wind to avoid all your hair.

There wasn’t anything romantic between you and Gray, you were simply hunting partners. It wouldn’t be a far stretch to say you two were friends. After all, you hunt with someone, you kind of have to bare everything, lay out your hand- every card of it -and let them see what you were carrying. Otherwise, you couldn’t trust. And hunting with someone you didn’t trust was just asking for a premature death.

Given his occupation, he lived quite long. By society’s standards he was young, tragically so for death to come for him. 44. That was his number, his place in line, moving up every year a step toward the counter where they were selling death instead of cuts of meat. Like it was a butcher’s shop.

Right, so what are you having? Decapitation for $10. That’s cheap this time of year, and the locale? Can’t get a better deal anywhere- no? Ok, how about bludgeoning? It’s not for everyone, but it is distinctive and hard to forget. …not that one either, huh? Alright, I know what you want-

You rub at your eyes, sighing. You needed to find a motel to shack up in for the day, you hadn’t slept for a few days, and now it was taking its toll. But you really needed to be here first, in public, away from your duffle of knives and guns. You needed to be around people.

Not now though. You’d had your fill of watching them come and go, and laugh, and breathe. You were better. For now.

The cup is cold, the coffee still; your hands have stopped shaking. Your biggest cue that the mood has passed, and you’re in the clear. You get ready to leave, grabbing your shoulder bag from its place in the corner of the booth when the door opens, jingling the bell overhead.

You’re done surveying comers and goers. You slip your bag over your shoulder, glance outside at the sun, the strength of its rays so early in the morning, and swoop your hair into a bun on top of your head. You swing a leg out of the booth, grab your cup of coffee and stop cold, frozen mid-motion like you’re a paused movie.

“Yeah, hi. Gimme a black coffee, another with cream and sugar, both large and uh-“ The man trails off in his pondering, wandering his gaze along the board on the wall behind the counter, perusing the list of edibles.

Jesus, he’s…a heart attack. Not a heart-throb, with that looks that dangerous ‘heart-throb’ just seems insulting. No, he’s everything your momma warned you about when you were a little girl running around in pastel colored sundresses. He’s everything every mother warned their daughters about.

And, oh, that voice. That rough, gravelly timber that made you think of whiskey and harsh smoke, night air rushing through windows into the cab of a car that rang with bone-jarring rock n’ roll. Street lights streaking past overhead, too fast to illuminate the darkness inside, a flash of orange glow on the dashboard, shining on the hood of some muscle car, engine roaring.

You blink yourself back to reality, gather your galloping heartbeat, and shake your head. Again, you make ready to leave, but are stopped. Your bag is vibrating.

Can only mean one thing.

You reach inside, sparing the man a glance: plaid, biker boots, broad shoulders, tan. Damn, no way a man like that is running around freely, gotta have a woman. Lucky, whoever she is.

You unlock the screen, eyes roving over a simple line of text from a fellow hunter.

**Finley: Call me. Found you one.**

You have a case. You just got done with one, four hours ago. But you know you’ll call him, probably on the way to a motel, probably before you even leave the café. You shove your phone back in your bag, rummage around for your sunglasses, and slowly stop, feeling eyes on you.

You look up, an ounce of worry in the action: these days the only things that looked at you were monsters; you made it a habit to avoid bars. You didn’t celebrate successful hunts anymore, only mourned the conclusion of them.

He’s looking at you, unabashedly, and it makes your stomach churn in the best way possible. But you have to go-

Your phone vibrates again.

It’s Fin.

**Finley: Actually, don’t call me. Bad time. I’ll send the details later.**

Bad time. That was code for _I have a woman in my bed, and don’t intend on kicking her out of it for a while. Don’t wait up._

No rush now. But still, you do have to go. Can’t spend any time here, especially if he’s a local. You’re just passing through.

You get up, hand submerged in your bag for your sneaky sunglasses, and grab your coffee, gaze steadfastly ignoring the space he’s taking up. It feels like he fills the whole café, like he demands the area around him, sucks the color from everything, drowns the background out of focus, and you disappear a little, back into that haze of night-time with rock n’ roll and warm light in a dark car.

You shake your head again, start for the door, there’s a trashcan close by it. And you hear an employee call his name: his order finished.

“Dean!”

_Dean._

Somehow it suites him, maybe because the name itself was as rare as his looks, as his influence and dominating presence. In any case, the first name would be all you’d take away.

You toss your cup in the trash, reach for the door when a wiry and tan muscular arm beats you to it.

 _Oh, Heavens no,_ you think in dread.

Sure enough, when you peek over your shoulder, he’s right there hardly a foot from you, smiling down the foot of difference in your height with bright green eyes and stubbly jaw.

“Thank you.” You say, keeping your tone even despite the butterflies making their way from your stomach to your heart. All of a sudden, you get a vision in your head: pulling a ticket out of a machine, a number on it that you can’t see because your thumb is over it, a deli counter and an open amount of space in front of you. A certain number of steps you can’t calculate, and then it’s gone like a flame on a candle, blown away in wisps.

He opens his mouth to say something, but you slip out the door into the warm air of morning and head towards your car. It used to belong to Gray…it felt wrong to get rid of it, so you kept it. You like to think he’d want you to have it. And, to be frank, you had so many memories invested in it; it was close to your heart, tied to your soul. There was no way you’d be able to part ways with her.

You find your sunglasses, and slip them on just as he recovers and strides his way next to you. Lord, he’s persistent. Clearly, he doesn’t have a woman he’s chained to. But then, why the two coffees? They both can’t be his: they’re different orders.

“I get the feeling you’re in a hurry, so I’ll cut to the chase-“

“No.” you say, digging your keys out of your bag.

He splutters, swoops around in front of you, holds his one free hand up, palm out. “Alright, then how ‘bout your name?”

You can’t help but smile, turn to put your key in the lock, “Why?” you ask him. He fidgets in his peripherals, minutely. But his eyes are twinkling, excited. Most likely about the challenge, his quickly closing window of opportunity.

“Well, seems only fair: you know mine.” He explains after a second, jamming his hand into his pocket, and you scrunch your face, turn around to face him.

“That doesn’t count: you didn’t introduce yourself to me, and as far I know, you gave the barista a fake name.” you point out, smiling thinly at him like you’re scolding, and his eyebrows pop up.

And then he extends his hand, grins sheepishly, a glint in his eye: he’s having fun. “Hi, name’s Dean.”

You guffaw, smile at the other cars in the parking lot, and then shake his hand with a frowny-smile. “Lemme guess: first name is actually James?” He rolls his lips into his mouth, laughing lines casing them, and you continue, “Y/N. My last name’s Bond.” You joke, and he chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Still looking at him, you pop your door open a crack, and he sort of weighs something in the air between you with his facial features. And you watch him guess at something that you seemed seconds ago so firm about.

“You staying in town?” Dean asks you suddenly, and leans his hip on the back door of your car like you aren’t in the middle of leaving. But…are you in the middle of leaving?

“Mm. Depends on if I can find a motel with vacancy.” You tell him, letting him know just how small his chance is, completely in disregard of his looks and charm; the only thing that dictates another meeting between you two is an empty motel room, nothing more.

A beaming grin slowly spreads across his face, as if he knows a secret. A second later he lets you in on that secret. “There’re a bunch of empty room at the motel I’m crashing in.”

Motel. He’s not a local. He’s just passing through like you. How fortunate. Maybe the stars are lining up somewhere behind the sun: in a spot you can’t see.

You smirk up at him, tilt your head sideways, “Well, then, I guess I’m staying in town.”

He nods. “Guess you are.” Dean pokes a thumb over his shoulder, “You wanna follow me?” you peer around him, get an eyeful of a shiny, pristine, sleek, late 60’s Chevy. Black.

Daamn. Gray would’ve been so jealous. Hell, you’re jealous.

You look back up at him. “Car like that, I’ll chase you across the damn state.”

Dean beams at the comment, obviously proud of his car like a parent would be a child. “Maybe I should just start introducing women to my car first.”

You shrug, twitch your features into a quick contemplative frown, “Not a bad idea. If they’re not impressed afterward, tell them they will be after you test the suspension.” You wink, slide into your car, and wait for him to move on to his own.

Instead, he leans down to your window, his bag and coffees carefully balanced in a drink carrier, and he groans at you, “Where the Hell have you been all my life? I needed that icebreaker every day for the past 20 years.”

You toss your head back and laugh, turning your keys in the ignition. “Well, you have it now. C’mon, let’s go before those rooms fill up.”

He grins wolfishly, and hurries to his car, parked a couple down from yours, and you watch him go, appreciating his bow-legged strides, the press of muscles underneath his plaid shirt, the veins popped out on his forearm, the watch strapped to his left wrist.

_What a morning._

You wonder: what Dean’s passing through this town for, who the other coffee belongs to, where your case is going to be. And not in that order. In the back of your mind you think of the early minutes before he arrived, the gloom and doom of the thoughts plaguing you. It was so coincidental, so flip-coin. That you were fighting off suicidal thoughts, drowning in grief, greying in ambition and will, the drive to continue, and then not long after, he walks through the door. Drove out the snares of thorny darkness like piercing light, cut through the fog and dense mist like the beam from a lighthouse, gave you a focus, a center to place your feet, a direction in which to head without doubt.

How strange. How strange is life. And how flimsy coincidence seems when compared to fate in the hopeful haze of springtime sunshine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something seems to be rearing its head, some kind of development where your smoke-like relationship with Dean is considered. Still, you have the possibility of a case, something to take your mind off his charming smile. And then you have this tulip too. Wonder where it came from?

“Well, I was half expecting Norma Bates to greet me from the patio-“

“What, you disappointed?” Dean rolls his eyes, standing by the hood of his car, talking to you, also standing by the hood of your car.

You pinch your lips together, and nod. “Yeah, kinda. Vera Famiga’s hot.” Dean peers at you, scrutinizing softly, and then he nods in agreement.

Crickets chirp in the silence between you, a couple owls hooting from the forest behind the motel which the scent of earth rolls out from, all dirt and moss, and leaf scented dew. Dean kind of wanders his gaze, scowls at murky questions in his brain like they’re right in front of him and not buried behind bone and fragile muscle.

And then he clears his throat. “Anyway, I gotta-“ he holds the drink carrier up, and jerks his head over his shoulder.

“Oh.” You say, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Right, yeah. Hey, thanks for-“ you gesture broadly at the motel, and he waves you off, shrugging.

“No problem.” Smiles at you amiably, smiles some more and then heads for the room he’s staying in with whoever. You observe his gait as you had before, something in your lizard brain whining at you, like you’ve read a sentence monotone when there was clearly an exclamation point at the end, and bite a cheek in curiosity.

He puts the key in the lock, and as if sensing your eyes on him, he half-turns around, one shoulder brushing the slightly peeling maroon paint of the door, and gives you a ¾ view of his face. “Hey, Y/N,” he starts, and you think he’s going to give you crap about ogling him, he seems that type of guy, but instead,

“Later, you mind if I…” Dean peers down the walkway emphatically, most likely at the empty rooms, one of which you will take for the night.

You smile widely, and shake your head. “Nope. Don’t mind.” His eyebrows shoot up, obviously surprised, and he swallows with a dumb nod.

“Right. See ya later.” Dean flashes a smile, disappears into his room, and you continue smiling after him. Finally, when birds start singing and heat gets trapped under your skin from the sun, radiating outward in mean pulses, you head to the front desk, a bounce in your step.

And seconds later, you’re padding down the concrete patio underneath the shade of a tin awning, motel key swinging around your finger on a big metal ring. Room 7.

“4…6, 7.” You stop at the door, look behind you at your car, at Dean’s, back at the walk-way and grin. There’s the faintly peeling paint on the door next to you that you noticed beside Dean’s head when he talked to you.

You make as much noise as you can opening your door: jingling the key, shimmying the lock, barely turning the knob so you have to shoulder your door open, and then you swing it closed behind you. If he was listening at all, there was no way he couldn’t have heard your grand entrance.

You toss the key on the table beside the door, note the somewhat cramped room. They would’ve been better off putting two twins in here instead of the queen. The bed almost takes up the whole room, Gray would’ve flipped his shit about it. You smile wanly.

Bedside tables on either side of it, tv mounted on a dresser a few feet away from the foot of the bed, the bathroom nestled near the corner of the opposite side of the room. You’d left your duffle in the trunk, and not on accident. You planned on taking a nap, right now, and then taking a shower when you woke up, getting food, and hopefully by then Fin would message you with details on your new case.

The comforter was a rust orange, and fuzzy, it looked like a chemical reaction had thrown up all over the bed. Regardless, you throw yourself on top of it, blocking out the squeak of springs, and stare at the mildly stained ceiling all of five seconds before you’re dead to the world.

Taking a siesta at 6:30 in the morning from not having slept in 48 hours. You liked to kick off your week with a resolute flavor and declaration of: I’m getting too old for this shit. Not true in the slightest, you were only in your late twenties, but suddenly after the death of Gray…you felt _old._

Sunlight in your eyes, stinging your lids orange, and bright yellow, dancing green along the edge, and you squeeze your eyes shut harder. And then you notice there’s something else, something else woke you up. You sit up with a grimace, a sleepy growl, and twist your back to look at the digital clock on the table. 8:00am.

You groan, rub your hands over your face, and observe the lack of sunglasses when you do it. They’re on the bed, up near the pillows, amazingly in one piece. There’s a light knock at the door, and you jump on the edge of the bed.

Guess that was what woke you up. You rub at your eyes, the bleariness there, and launch yourself to your feet. You hope it isn’t Dean, you’re not exactly welcoming at the moment having just woken up from a too short nap. And you really wanted to shower before you saw him again.

You stumble to the door, and peer out the peep-hole only to furrow your brow in confusion. There’s no one there. Someone playing a trick on you? You yank the door open, poke your head out and look down both stretches of concrete, expecting some kid to be ducking back into their motel room. But there’s no one.

You just about shut the door when something on the ground catches your eye. It’s a flower. A singular flower, laying all by itself. You bend down and pick it up, regarding it warily and curious. It’s white, and if memory serves, you think it’s a tulip. The shape makes you think so.

You glance around again, thinking maybe someone is watching from afar, ducking behind something to see your reaction. But no one’s outside. Shrugging, you close the door, and lock it this time. You look at the tulip for a second, racking your brain for a reason and when you come up with none, you place it on the table next to the room key.

Shower. Shower now. With shaving, and rinsing and repeating, and using all the hot water. You could do that now: enjoy a shower without having to get whined at. Gray would let you go first, under the guise of chivalry and manners, and then bang on the door hardly five minutes later, urging you to _Hurry the Hell up. I’m not going to step into a cold shower: the shock might make my nuts fall off._

Drama queen. He was a pain in the ass to deal with sometimes, but he was worth it in the end. Best ten years of your life were spent with that weirdo. Standing there under the warm spray of water, the liquid beating on top of your head, slipping down your face, drowning your ears, you swear you can hear him playing the guitar.

Plucking at the strings, tapping his foot, humming, quietly singing whatever song he was apparently playing. He’d always stop singing at one point, and look at you, still playing, his fingers flying along the frets and he’s say, “You know this song?” you always shook your head, and he’d smile, quirk an eyebrow, and go, “Of course you do. I play it all the time.”

He had never told you the name of the song even though you had asked countless times. He’d just chuckle, press a smile with tight lips like he was trying to stop from laughing and he’d raise his eyebrows at you, innocent.

You splutter, cough, and stumble back a few steps from the spray, choking on water. You swallow in jolts and gulp a breath when you can, blinking away droplets from your eyes, wetness clumping your lashes into points like stars.

The water’s cold. And you’re shivering, so you get out. You dry off quick, and slip your clothes back on. No one except for you knows you’ve been wearing them for a whole day. You take a cautionary sniff at them, and when your eyes don’t tear up and you don’t start hacking, you shrug.

You dry your hair best you can, and leave the bathroom, snatching your bag on the way to the door. You slip the motel key onto your car-key ring, and get caught staring at that tulip. Something is nagging at you about the flower, your lizard brain sighing at you in irritation.

Shrugging in temporary defeat, you open the door, and step outside into the bright sunshine, squinting.

“Hey!” someone says, and it’s not a _hey, stop right there!_ but a _Hey, nice to see you._

You swivel on your heel, and find Dean a few feet down at his own door, as well as someone else on the edge of the walk-way.

_Hum. Ma. Nah._

Tall, taller than weeds in Texas, and a tan that would make Californians jealous, muscles to catalog for days, file them away by the amount of drool each one coaxes. Chestnut hair soft and flowy, tucked behind ears, sideburns like a welcome matt before you stepped foot into a goddamn mansion.

Must be Dean’s roommate. Partner. Friend. Who cares at this point?

“Jeez, save some hey for someone else,” you smile at Dean, and he pockets his key, worming a smile of his own. You glance at the giant on the lip of the patio in question, and Dean snaps out of his trance.

He gestures a hand at the man, “Y/N, this is my brother, Sam. Sam, Y/N.”

You wave at Sam with a polite smile, _Jesus Christ, the genes in this family. There probably isn’t a weak side to their gene pool._ “Headed out, huh?” you ask, looking between the two of them. Plaid, rolled up to elbows, light-wash jeans, seen some years and rough times. The broad shoulders and chests on them both…missing a big picture, you know you are.

“Yeah. Got some distant family we need to check in on.”

What? That…kind of makes sense. But at the same time kind of doesn’t.

You smile wider. Point at yourself. “No distant family. Just hungry.”

And Dean chuckles, Sam cracks a tiny smile, and you wave at them both to signal you plan on leaving.

“Maybe we’ll catch a glimpse of each other while we’re in town?” Dean wonders as you both walk to your respective cars, and you can’t resist winking at him.

“Thought I told you: Chase you across the state just to ogle your car.” And duck into your car, settling quickly in the driver’s seat. You miss the look Sam sends you, like: _Shit, maybe I should get my own Chevy._ And _Dean’s so fucking screwed._

Dean just grins and grins, all the way in town, purposefully in front you so can ogle his car no doubt. At red lights, you wave from your car, feeling exactly when he’s looking in his rear-view at you: the butterflies flutter in your stomach like they’re on acid.

He waves back. Until, he turns a corner you don’t intend to go. And then his arm is out his window, hand up as he pulls away, _See ya later._ You certainly hope so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I get to the end notes, I always forget what I was going to write. And usually it's something important about the story. Go figure. Oh, well. I'm sure I'll remember. Feedback appreciated, I'd love to know if you guys like this story.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord. This is probably the best Monday you've ever had in your life. I mean, sure, you missed out on a case, it's really hot outside, you're dead tired, and you're almost positive your fake credit card is bouncing the line, but on the other hand...Dean keeps popping up places, him and his giant brother. Dean's the high-light of your Monday, your something to look forward to. He almost makes these tulips easy to forget.

Coincidentally, or maybe not so, you end up back at that café in the corner booth that you’ve labeled as yours until you leave town. Which, luck affording, you will be doing tomorrow. This time around you have a sandwich in front of you, something open-faced with meats and vegetables, and a chocolate croissant. You’ve skipped the coffee and gone for iced tea, the last thing you need is an awful caffeine crash on top of your lack of sleep.

You’re not fond of Mondays, but you do enjoy surviving them. You pick apart your croissant, the flaky bread peeling away in warm tufts, steam rising from the gooey chocolate in the center. It’s semi-sweet, a dash of saltiness in the chocolate that the fluffy bread chases away easily.

There isn’t much more business than there was a couple of hours ago; a few middle-aged people, college students running ‘accidently’ late, an elderly man so bent over his spine was sure to look like a ninety-degree angle. And then of course, there’s you: sat in a dingy corner by a window whose blinds are broken and dusty.

The music has changed since you’ve been in here, some pop and indie sprinkled with a dark feel, a hidden depth to the supposed shallow lyrics and miniscule musical arrangement. It’s easier to relax somehow, here, underneath a speaker that faintly crackles with static, pops with the crescendos that are mostly all drums and breathy vocals.

It’s 9 something by now, you’d wasted about fifteen minutes in a run-down second-hand bookstore a couple blocks away. You’d miraculously left with a book, enticed by the name and sleeve alone. Don’t judge a book by its cover. You were doing exactly that. You hope you won’t be disappointed by it. If you are, you won’t mourn the loss of the two dollars it cost you.

You take a sip of your tea, ice watering down the base bitterness of it, a hard flavor lingering behind it: only bad tea disappears the moment it’s down your esophagus. Good tea tends to stick around for a moment on the palette, swirl and dip around the mouth before it’s carried away in exhales and swallows.

You start to feel tired, eyelids dragging on blinks, and you wish you had just gone back to bed at the motel instead of getting up. But, you had a call to wait on, details of a case hopefully en route. Yawning, you idly wonder if Fin had called you, sent the case details to you while you had been taking a nap. After all, you hadn’t checked your phone since you were last in this coffee shop.

Popping another sliver of croissant into your mouth, you drag your phone out of your bag and press the home button.

**Finley: Possible vamp case in…**

Shit. He had sent the information at…you squint at the time-stamp: 8.13. Fuck. You had been in the shower, hadn’t heard your phone go off.

You log in, open your messages and continue reading.

**Finley: Possible vamp case in Longmont Colorado. Missing kids. Some of their bodies turned up, puncture wounds on neck conclusive with vampire bite marks. One kid was bled dry. Got some young bloods on your hands, be careful.**

Great, young vamps. Bloodthirsty as all fuck and ruthless, unpredictable and- wait. Did he just say Longmont? You read the whole text again, blink stupidly and lean back in your seat with a humored exhale.

Looks like you’re staying in town longer than you anticipated. Lucky Dean. Or…lucky you. However you want to slice that cake, the end result is still the same: sweet, and appealing. Well, you definitely have some work to take care of before you indulge yourself.

“Hey!” You hear, and immediately recognize the rough rumble, the subtle smoothness of water underneath the gravel and smoke.

Would it be weird if you asked him to read the menu? Or this new book you bought? ...the phone book?

You look up, smile on your face, and try not to give away how much you’re already sorry but also excited. “Hey again. Not stalking me, are you?”

Dean rubs the back of his head, snickering. “You’re more likely to do the stalking between the two of us,”

You glance behind him, at Sam ordering their lunch, half-turned to watch this exchange in his almost peripherals, and say, “True enough. So, you come back in for the coffee or because you saw my car in the parking lot?”

He gazes at you, looks out into the parking lot at evidence that proves him guilty and then slides into the booth on the other side of you. “Turns out, I like staring at your car too.” He grins then, glances down at your lunch, and locks his eyes on you again, “Drove all over town looking for it.”

Oooh shit. And you’re gonna tell him you’re too busy for him? For him? Too busy? Ugh, oh my God, why can’t you be selfish for once.

“mm.” you hum, and lace your fingers together so you can rest your chin in the net of them, elbows on the table. “Must be a Chevy thing.”

He smirks. “Nah, must be who’s driving it.” He says like he’s speculating, guessing, asking for your opinion instead of outright telling you something more obvious than neon on black.

Haah, you’re smiling. Really hard. Like damn, take it easy or you’re gonna need Botox before you hit thirty-five. You don’t have anything you can say to that, maybe you should though. Maybe you should have some witty come-back, some tongue-in-cheek comment that will make his face ache just as much as yours, but you’ve got nothing. Properly caught-off guard from the compliment, the subtle-not-so-subtle way he was flirting.

You’ve got nothing. So, you just smile at him like that was your play the whole time. And soon, he’s smiling back, just as big, making his eyes crinkle at the corners, deepening the color of his striking forest-greens.

“Am I interrupting something?” Sam asks, suddenly there at the table’s edge and sounding put off, though all of his words are directed at Dean. As if he’s scolding or trying to remind his brother of something. Maybe they’re busy, and need to get going but Dean’s holding them up?

“Not at all,” you answer lightly, and look up at him. “If you guys need to get going, I won’t keep you tied up.” You angle your eyebrows apologetically, and Sam actually looks guilty with the way he swallows hard and pinches around the corners of his hazel eyes like he’s been pricked in the side with a needle.

“N-no. Just…didn’t want to barge in on something.” Sam mutters quickly, and you get the impression he never intended to say those words because he stares hard at Dean as they tumble out syllable by syllable.

“It’s a public booth, Sam. Couldn’t barge in on anything if you tried.” Dean says, not sparing his brother a glance, his eyes zeroed in, focused on you. And if not you specifically, then the area around you, gaze a few inches from your skin, hair, face, at all times. Like you’re the center of gravity for his eyes.

And you realize, probably belatedly like him, that the same is true for you: inevitably, you end up looking at him, or extremely near him that you hug the edge of truth with your optics. I’m not looking at you. The same way a sibling would stick their finger in your face, barely an inch from poking your cheek and chant: I’m not touching you. I’m _not_ touching you.

Much like that. That’s how you stare at each other. Missing the mark by scant centimeters. It’s dodgy flirtation because you both know you’re looking, appreciating, filing things away; such as how sharp and focused you both appear compared to the background, even when the background is the very thing you’ve locked your eyes on.

“See, I am barging in on something.” Sam speaks up, now in the booth beside Dean and you didn’t notice him sit down, nor did you notice him putting down the tray in the middle of the table. As if it physically hurts, you tear your gaze away from Dean and move the few necessary inches to talk to Sam.

“You don’t seem too sorry,” you tease, watch him pop the lid off his coffee to the blow at the surface. He was the one that needed cream and sugar, though not much: the coffee is a tawny color, not the vanilla shade many people prefer. And it still smells faintly bitter.

Their coffee choices seem to fit them. Dean with his strong black coffee, bitter and overpowering, something that takes your breath away, makes you measure the time between your inhales and exhales a little more careful. And Sam, needing cream and sugar. Something sweet and light, but wholly the same, just a tad easier to swallow.

“Hey, it’s a public booth.” He shrugs with a smile, repeating Dean’s words, and you realize that tiny smile he cracked earlier at the motel wasn’t even a smile: it was politeness, manners. Because this is a real smile that makes sparks in his eyes, and dimples pop out on his cheeks.

Damn, damn, damn.

How the Hell are they both single?

You need a change of subject. For your heart. If you don’t do something to tone down all this smiling and laughing you’ll have a damn heart-attack.

“So, that distant family of yours alright?” You take another drink of your tea, and feel something settle over the table: it’s hesitation, caution.

“Uh. In a manner of speaking, yeah.” Dean reaches for one of the donuts Sam bought, completely ignoring the sandwich Sam got for him. You look down at your own lunch, the picked at croissant, the untouched sandwich and inwardly laugh.

“In a manner of speaking?” You spin the cup in your hands, glance down at them because the motion is familiar and you want to make sure you don’t have blood under your fingernails. You don’t.

“Yeah, his son died recently.”

**Possible vamp case in Longmont. Missing kids. Some of their bodies turned up, puncture wounds on necks conclusive with vampire bite marks. One kid was bled dry. Got some young bloods on your hands, be careful.**

You shoot your eyebrows up. “What, all the way out here? I haven’t even seen any graffiti in the town…” you sound surprised, mildly worried, try to cover up the curiosity. Like this town is Perfectville in the middle of Safety and Peace.

They both sink into a moment of silence, stare into their coffees with creased brows. And for a second you think it’s sorrow or unease, but then you realize it’s anger, and judgement. The hardest edge to it you’ve ever seen aside from Gray when he’d lock his azure blue eyes on a monster. And this is the moment your lizard brain slaps you, and goes duh.

You crack a tiny laugh and lean back in the booth, and both actions force their eyes to you. You tap the table, point at the both of them, “You’re hunters.” They blink, startled as you smile wryly at yourself: disappointed in how long it took you to figure it out. “Of course.” You mutter to yourself, seeing all the dots connect in your head.

“Are you?” That’s Sam, head tilted, eyebrows raised, suddenly looking at you in new a light. The possibility of a new light. But Dean’s not looking at possibility, he’s appreciating what is. What he knows to be true: You are a hunter.

“Yeah…” Damn, this tea is really good.

“So, you’re here for the vamp case?”

You smile around the rim. “Not anymore.” And look at the both of them in emphasis, “Only got the info this morning.” Fin was going to be irritated. Then again, he’s probably already gotten another woman in his bed since he sent the text.

“Got the info?” Sam sounds confused, hunters search for their own cases. They hardly, if ever, have someone sending cases.

“Yeah,” you smile cheekily, wishing Fin was here to listen to this next part. “From my secretary.” You really need to go see him and his giant German Shepherd. You’re sure the dog misses you at least. Fin…that was a stretch.

You wave a hand flippantly. “Anyway, case’s all yours.” You tell them as if all three of you had happened upon a hundred-dollar bill on the sidewalk and you were giving it up. “I only booked the room for today, so, I’m outta here tomorrow.”

Dean straightens in his seat at the words, and Sam limply pouts in thought. You tear apart more of your croissant, think about sending Fin a text, and then brush the idea off. _Probably has a woman in his bed…probably has **women** in his bed. _

“You don’t want to work the case, team up?” Dean asks, curious, hopeful. Hopeful for what, you don’t know.

Team up, go on a hunt, kill some monsters, and then take that dive. Drown in the thoughts and urges, the random suicidal tendencies that always came after. And have them there when it happens? No, no thank you.

“Nope. I’m sure you’re capable.” You shrug, not perturbed at the loss of a case. After all, you weren’t exactly devoted to it, you only found out about it this morning. Well, more like a half hour ago. Anyway, they did look capable, very. Enough so, you’re suddenly curious about them.

Maybe you will text Fin. And then you realize your intentions about it are damn strong because you’ve got your phone in hand and messages open before the thought can make the leap from short-term to long-term memory.

**Y/N: Hey, Fin. Any chance you can tell me something about a couple of guys? Fellow hunters. Names are Dean and Sam. Brothers, apparently. Just met them, they’re taking the vamp case: beat me to it.**

Now you wait for Hell to break loose. Fin never did like his hard work going to waste. He used to give Gray an earful when something like this happened. But Gray said something that stuck with you, though he only said it once: Keep your panties on, Fin. Evil isn’t going anywhere, just relocating. So, find out where it’s moved to.

He was right. Evil isn’t going anywhere, it’s still here. Everywhere you look.

Chances are, you’ll find a new case before Fin. Just driving around aimlessly, that’s how much evil had risen in the past ten years. You’re bound to run into it more often than drug addicts in Lancaster, Ohio.

“So…how’s your morning going?” you ask with some cheek and put your phone down, smirking. They crack smiles of their own, glad to be brushing this tiny mess with the case under the table.

“Oh, you know. It’s Monday, so it’s all shit.” Dean answers, fighting the growth of his smile. “Too many red lights, not enough bars, rude townspeople.” He lists a few things with gravity, as if each is in direct conflict with the ten commandments.

Conversation flows after that, between all three of you, each of you divulging past hunts, how you got into hunting. Though, that answer is short on both ends, not much detail given because the answer is never pleasant. For them: they grew up in it. For you: you didn’t have any other choice. But you stay  and try to chit-chat without probable cause. They have a vamp case to finish, and you…you’ve got another nap to take, and clothes to change into.

When the smiles dwindle down to ghostly twitches of the lips, you all silently agree it’s time to move on. Wordlessly, Sam piles your trash on the tray with theirs and takes care of it all. Look at him, probably trying to earn brownie points for stealing ‘your’ case. Sam throws a wave at you, practically out the door by the time you and Dean make it out of the booth.

You both pretend you’re not walking slower than usual. The journey to the door is much like lemonade: at its base something bitter and unwelcome, the inevitable goodbye between you two. That’s the lemon itself. But, the attraction and the easiness of the friendship are what turns the sour fruit into something pleasant and sweet. It’s what turns the walk into lemonade.

He holds the door open, and you both smile at the déjà vu sensation of it, and keep your smiles in the lot because there’s a memory here too and one worth remembering. His hands are in his pockets, arms loose, elbows bowed, and bouncy with his walk. You’re resting a hand on your shoulder bag, the other swinging lightly at your side, and you both speed your gait a little because Sam is kind of watching and would undoubtedly know if you both were dragging out the seconds.

“Y/N, have you met Baby?” Dean asks you quite out of the blue and you glance at him with an amused smile. Before you can form a reply, he stops in front of his car, pats the hood and smiles as wide as he can with pressed lips.

“You’re introducing me to your car.” You realize and laugh, shaking your head. That entire conversation comes back in one fell swoop. He chuckles, nodding, waits for you to say something else. And you do. “Can’t say I’m very impressed.” You lie blatantly, and Dean looks so grateful for it.

He opens his mouth-

“Can you guys not? I’ve a got a front row seat to this.” Sam pipes up from the car, his window down, and you laugh again.

“Sorry, Sam!” you apologize, and he rolls his eyes like _Yeah, I’m sure you are._ You peer up at Dean, waiting to see if he’ll say goodbye first, and since Sam’s soured his mood a little, he does.

“See you back at the motel later?” He sounds a fraction uncertain, maybe he thinks you’re not planning on waiting until tomorrow to leave.

“Sure will.” You say with a sunny smile, and it’s contagious, because he shoots one right back, perfect teeth flashing. You give them both a wave, hop down the sidewalk and hurry to your door. Dean parked right next to you, so Sam watches you get in your car.

He still thinks he should get his own Chevy. Seems to be a common theme, out of the three of you he’s the only person that doesn’t have one. Dean with his Impala. And you with your dark blue, almost black Monte Carlo from the 70s. He feels like he’s missing out, a broken link in the Chain Gang.

You pull out first, not bothering to stick around. The motel and wherever they plan on going are most likely in opposite directions. Besides, fortune willing, you’ll see them both later. You turn on the radio, pre-set on a station that plays classic rock. Good ol’ Gray could find rock stations on the radio no matter where you were in the continental U.S. And subconsciously, you had memorized the stations over the years.

It wasn’t life-saving information, but it was a comfort to you now. Before, when Gray was still kicking ass and forgetting names, it was annoying having to listen to classic rock literally all the time. And you do mean literally. If a restaurant or diner wasn’t playing rock you didn’t eat there. And when he’d get to a motel, if the room had a radio, you’d be listening to it until you went to bed.

The drive to the motel is short, made all the faster by the Led Zeppelin song tumbling through your speakers. You may be speeding, who can tell, the town is so small you blink and you’ve driven right through it. You caught off Led Zepp right in the middle of a guitar solo and hop out of your car trying not to squint in the harsh sunlight. It’s already begun to get humid, whatever coolness that lingered from the night before is long gone.

You pop your trunk open, drag your duffle out and slam the lid down almost all in the same motion. Gravel crunches under your boots, heels rolling with large rocks, and you take a glance around at the area out of habit. Without Gray, you feel slightly more vulnerable; you don’t have anyone to watch your back except for you now. It isn’t that you were a hopeless damsel in distress without Gray, but…a woman on her own was inarguably more of a target.

Quiet. Dead quiet, but then again you are basically in the styx. You step under the awning with a small sigh, happy to be in the shade and pull your keys out of your pocket, metal jingling merrily. You reach the door to your room, and stop dead, ice skidding up your spine in a violent burst.

There, leaning against the opening corner of the door and jamb is a white tulip. And it’s a new one, because by now the one you have on that table would’ve begun to wilt, and this one is stiff straight with life, stem firm.

Someone dropped off another flower. For you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I remembered what I was going to say last chapter: I've mentioned the term 'lizard brain' a few times, and I got that from the show Dexter. Another thing, I want to point out what tulips symbolize: They're the apology flower, commonly used when asking for forgiveness. And they are also used to claim worthiness. The tulips are important, right now they're the biggest mystery, along with Gray's past and affiliation with you, so don't forget about them.


	4. Chapter 4 (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Take no chances. The hunting life will kill you inevitably, but faster if you're stupid. Good thing Gray taught you everything he knew. Too bad it's all getting in the way of what you want. Too bad it's getting in the way of what Dean wants. But...these things tend work out how they're supposed to, right? You both hope so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, chapter four has been real wonky on me. For whatever reason, not everything I've written is appearing in the work. I'll copy and paste from Microsoft Word, but little less than half of it shows up. To make things more frustrating, AO3 has the word-count correct. It says, for example, that I've added two thousand words to the story, despite the fact that only 900 has showed up. *sigh* It's happened five times. So, I'm chopping up chapter 4 until I get ALL of it posted, sorry! It's not my fault.

_“Evil isn’t going anywhere, just relocating.”_

Maybe it’s just a stretch to think something evil is connected to these seemingly harmless gifts of flowers. But Gray had taught you to play it safe. So, for now, until you can prove otherwise, there’s an ulterior motive behind whoever is giving you flowers. Because, hardly ever are gifts given without the expectation of repayment in some fashion or other. Nothing ever comes free.

You rush into your room, leave the new tulip outside on the cool concrete, and lock your door. You jump when your phone vibrates in your bag. Once, twice. And then goes still. Your heart is hammering in your chest, and you’re glad there’s no one around to tease you about it.

Dropping your duffle on the floor, you sit down on the bed and fumble for your phone, eyeing that slowly wilting tulip on the table with distrust.

**Finley: You met Sam and Dean?! In the flesh? Holy fuck, did you get their autographs? Y/N, they’re only the most legendary of monster hunters within our Salt-and-Holy-Water community. I mean, they’ve both died more times than anyone can count, saved the world on just as many occasions. Jesus, they could write songs about the Winchester brothers…someone probably has. Anyway, get their numbers, give them yours, and if you can, fuck one of them. Or both, I won’t judge.**

You gawk at the text, read twice, blush furiously at the ending comments, and shake your head. Legendary, huh? Gray never mentioned them, but he didn’t idolize anyone other the lead singers of hair bands, didn’t talk any other hunters up on pedestals. But still, why hadn’t you heard of them through the grapevine? Seems impossible that you’ve never even heard mention of their names.

Your phone buzzes again, and you look down.

**Finley: Word of caution though, Y/N. The Winchesters are a magnet for trouble, got blazing targets on their backs. Hardly anyone who gets close to them walks away in one piece. If I were you, I’d fuck them…and then _fuck them._ You catch my drift?**

That was why Gray never mentioned them. Death magnets. Gray didn’t coddle you in any way, but he definitely cared, didn’t want to see you wind up dead. And these guys apparently attracted death like flies to honey.

**Y/N: I getcha. Roger that. You want me to get a picture for you?** ****


	5. Chapter 4 (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Take no chances. The hunting life will kill you inevitably, but faster if you're stupid. Good thing Gray taught you everything he knew. Too bad it's all getting in the way of what you want. Too bad it's getting in the way of what Dean wants. But...these things tend work out how they're supposed to, right? You both hope so.

You shouldn’t stick around them. Make a memory, and then go your separate ways. Which is what your plan had been since the beginning. So, why do you feel the need to reaffirm, repeat a set-in stone plan back to yourself?

You don’t dwell on it, you figure you won’t find an answer you like. You pull the blinds closed on the one window in the room, right beside the door, and toe off your boots, scowling down at the tulip. You snatch up your phone, open your browser and type in: **Flower shops in Longmont, CO.**

And drop it while you wait for it to load, pull your tank-top over your head, pop the button on your jeans and shimmy them off. The web page is still buffering. So, the bra and underwear go next, and you paw in your duffle for new clothes.

You snatch a bra you hardly ever put on, your push-up. And settle on panties of the same color. Shove your arms through a flannel, billowy and purposefully large. It’s got snaps instead of buttons, and you do the two middle ones, plus one more up top. Barely enough to cover your cleavage, and pull out a pair of skinny jeans.

By the time you squeeze into them, your browser is done loading. There’s a measly four results and you spend the next ten minutes calling them, asking if they have any white tulips in stock. Each one either tells you they don’t sell them, or they have a shipment coming in but don’t have any at the moment.

Well, that has you worried about these tulips that are making their way to your door. They aren’t from anyone local, who could be sending them? You pick it up, the stem slightly softer but still clinging to rigidness, and you frown.

You shove your boots on, peek out your blinds on impulse, and finding everything still, go over to your duffle. You have salt on hand, just in case. And you make use of it, lining the door, the window sill, check the bathroom because you can’t remember if it has a window.

Your phone rings. Like, actually rings. Not vibrates, and you pad over to it with a contemplative scowl. It’s Fin.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Y/N, I’m a man, and a free one at that. So- so this- this is-“ Finley sounds embarrassed, flustered, and somewhat pissy. He’s also not making any sense.

“Fin. Use words.” You interrupt, and hear him take a breath. “Now, what’s got you speechless?”

“Y/N.” he says your name again like _Do fucking-not._ “Seriously, this is just weird, and backwards.”

You rub at your forehead, confused, irritated, and groan. “What is? The attraction that women have for you? Yeah, you’re right; it is weird and backwards.”

“Oh, fuck off, Y/N. You know what I’m talking about: these fucking tulips!” he snaps, his voice cracking at the end, but you don’t hear him.

You drop the phone the same time your stomach hits the floor, and for a second you’re frozen, staring off into space while your heart gallops towards cardiac arrest. You bend down, picking up all your shed clothes to shove them back into your duffle.

Finley’s voice crackles out the speaker on your phone, muffled from the carpet and distance. You yank the zipper closed when you’ve got everything packed up. Only then do you snatch the phone and press it to your ear, getting caught in the middle of Finley’s bitching.

“Fin, shut the Hell up and get out of wherever you are: I’ve been getting tulips today too.” You interrupt him, maneuvering the phone between your cheek and shoulder so can tear the motel key off your key-chain.

“What, from who?” he asks you, his tone low, all business, and you hear shuffling in the background, doors opening and closing.

“Not a clue. Any of your flowers come with a note?” you wonder, almost out the door when something jars you: the empty spot by your car. Sam and Dean. You didn’t get their numbers. Fucking Hell. You rummage in your shoulder bag for a piece of paper.

A receipt is the only paper to speak of. From when you bought that book. Pen. You need a pen.

“No. Nothing. Just sitting right outside my door. Two of them.” His voice tapers out near the end, fades to silence. He’s probably packing up, running here and there.

Marker. Sharpie marker. Hastily, you scrawl your name, your number on the receipt, as well an apology. You fold it, slip under the edge of the number on their door, easily visible on the red paint, and heel-toe your way to your car.

Fin’s back. “Y/N, you’re okay, right? Nothing’s happened to you?”

Well hot damn, you don’t think you’ve ever heard Finley sound worried. “Not yet.” You half joke, launching into the car, chucking your duffle into the passenger seat.

“Fuck you, that’s not funny.” He growls into your ear, and you hear a creak, a slam. He’s in his car too.

“Sorry.” You turn the engine over, radio on because you never turn it off. A dog barks in your ear. Right, you almost forgot about Judge. “You out?”

“Yeah…who the Hell knows me that knows you?” you know what he’s asking: who have told about me.

“Nobody, Fin. You’re my dirty little secret.” You assure him, backing out of the parking lot. “I’m selfish like that.”

He chuckles, the sound jumpy, and you smirk, willing your pulse to slow. And it does when you get your car out of the lot, and point the hood out of town.

“Good to know you haven’t changed in the last 3 years.” He snorts, hushes Judge.

“I’ll call you back later-“

“When the dirt runs red. I know. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” He hangs up.

You have a bit of a drive ahead of you. He’ll get there before you, he tends to stick close to the place. You turn the radio up, you’re going to need something to keep you awake. You glance in your rear-view briefly, feeling sorry.

_“Plenty of time to regret, if you’re alive. But first you gotta save your own ass…”_

Words of wisdom from one Gray Keynes.

_“Or just get drunk and forget. Personally, I make the choice of alcohol over the weight of my own conscience every time, but that’s just me.”_

He had said those words to you when you were nineteen, in this very car. And then, to prove his point, he had taken a very large swig of vodka, hissed an inhale, handed the bottle off to you and hit the gas…and then after a couple of miles asked if you were wearing your seat-belt.

Goddamn. You miss the bastard.

 

 

“I think that might have been the cleanest vamp hunt we’ve ever done.” Dean remarks, glancing between himself and Sam, the scarce flecks of blood on their shirts. Dean’s lucky though, he’s wearing red plaid, so he might have more blood on him than he thinks.

Sam grunts, not entirely pleased. Dean had been bouncy and reckless, hopped up on adrenaline, and a desire to get back in town as quick as possible. He’d been hasty. Taking chances in order to make the work faster, putting more power behind every movement of his arms, hard steps and wide stances, short breathes and even shorter thoughts.

Still, nothing had come of it, luckily. They were both here, in one piece. But Sam could tell on the drive back that Dean wasn’t happy about how long it took.

The sun is higher in the sky, shining, pulsing high above the tree-line with yellow heartbeats, its iridescent outline wavering and swaying with heat. It’s vibrant against the azure blue of the sky with puffy clouds of white dotting the wide expanse here and there like ornaments on a tree or sequins on a shirt.

It’s hotter too, inching towards uncomfortable, and Sam can’t wait to be in the motel room with the AC. He’s going to take a nice long cat nap. Maybe he should do something productive, but he’s got the whole entire day to himself and he wants to enjoy it.

He knows that once Dean’s got the car parked and put on a different shirt, he’ll be down that walk-way, knocking on your door, asking if you want to go get a drink. Or something. Sam rubs at his eyes, seriously hoping the two of go somewhere, go on a date, or go to different motel.

“Huh,” Dean says, and Sam pops his head up, the question ‘What?’ on his tongue, but no need to say it because he sees a second later.

Your car is gone. “She probably got tired of waiting, went to a park or something to pass the time?” Sam offers, not worried or caring about your disappearing act.

Dean nods as he pulls in, not responding and cuts the engine almost immediately. And then he sits, flattens his lips, flops his hands into his lap-

“Oh my God. Please don’t be like this the rest of the day.” Sam groans, a hand over his eyes, dreading the amount of time ahead of him until you get back from wherever you are.

“Get the bags.” Dean grumbles, and shoves himself out of the car, completely pouting. He knows he’s being childish, he still has the whole day, and you said that you’d be here. You weren’t leaving until tomorrow. He just has to be patient, wait for you to get back.

But he can’t shake the feeling that he wasted time somehow, took too much time, squandered it. He doesn’t know where the feeling comes from, only knows that it settles in his stomach like a ball of lead and makes him feel low, drags him through the mud and muck.

Shadows pass overhead from clouds, and Dean stops still, limbs locked tight against his ordinance, but it doesn’t register. Dean’s miles away.

On the other side of the bog, the dirty water and smelly heat, the muggy haze in the air and the grit in the fibers of his clothes he sees you on the bank through a break in reeds and cattails, waiting. Sitting in the grass of the incline, watching him, forearms on knees, hands clasped as he struggles in chest deep stagnation.

He tries harder, arms up above the mire, legs swishing under the surface, sinking deep in a layer of decayed leaves and algae, possibly dead fish, and cuts air in his lungs to rough pushes, like a jump-start against the obstructing plant life and heavy water. And then you’re up, standing, staring over the bank foliage, arms crossed as if you’re disappointed he didn’t make it. You don’t wave as you leave, something Dean has gotten used to in the measly few hours that he’s known you; you always wave when you leave.

But not this time. Up over the bank, not a backward glance as you disappear, the sky above bleary and gray, overcast, impending rain carried on the breeze. There’s a nip in the wind, and it chills him, even the parts of him deep in muddy water that were just a second ago so pressingly warm. He’s close, close to the cropping of water reeds and tall cat-tails, and can see through the opening of them. Can see where you were sitting.

You’re gone. But in your place, something white, small…a flower.

Dean shakes himself back, head and shoulders vibrating like he’s tossing off water, and he looks behind him at Sam who’s getting the bags out of the trunk, oblivious to whatever trance he just fell into. Good. Dean doesn’t have any idea how to explain what the Hell just happened.

Key in hand, he stomps to the door, jams the key in the lock, glaring at the door knob, and the dull red paint, the tarnished number eight, the receipt sticking out from it-

Whoa, what?

Dean raises his head, not sure he can trust his eyes after that strange episode he went through. But sure enough, there’s a receipt right in front of his face, folded, and purposefully shoved under their door number.

He snatches it, unfolds, reads the words scrawled in thick lines, bleeding because the ink is too heavy for the paper. But he can still make it all out.

It’s your number. And you’ve left a little note underneath,

_Sam, Dean, sorry to take off, but something’s come up. You ever need anything…_

Dean frowns hard enough to pull all of his facial features inwards, and tries not to throw a tiny tantrum. But…what was the something that came up?

“Dude, what are you doing? Open the door.” Sam whines from the dip of the patio, already behind on his beauty sleep. And ahead on his bitching.

“She left.” Dean tells him, and turns around to wave the receipt, the thick black marker showing up easily as he flaps it around, and Sam raises his eyebrows.

“What for?” Sam hefts the duffle bag on his shoulder, glances at the empty spot in the gravel where your car used to be, and now he’s a little concerned. He hopes you’re okay wherever you are now.

“Don’t know. Didn’t say.” Dean bobs his head back and forth, peers down the walkway at the front desk, can’t see anyone. And takes the necessary five steps to get to your door. “Just said something came up.” Dean finishes, squinting at the slab of wood in front of him.

“Ohhh my God.” Sam sighs, and drops the bags to follow behind Dean. It’s easy to see you’ve got Dean hooked and trying to convince his brother to leave your disappearance be is about as pointless as giving Dean the choice between carrots and broccoli: he wouldn’t choose either.

Dean tries the doorknob, finds it unlocked and swings the door open, and gawks. There’s a line of salt at the door, and he looks over his shoulder at Sam to throw a _See? Something’s wrong. Dick._ He steps inside, with Sam right on his heel.

The motel room is untouched. Mostly. The bed sheets, comforter, is wrinkled with ripples here and there. You slept on top of the blankets. Dean wanders to the bathroom. Water around the drain in the shower, the floor is slightly slippery with water.

“Hey.” Sam calls softly near the table by the front door. Dean pads back in, hoping Sam found something.

“What’s up?” Dean asks as he approaches, and then feels a small chill up his spine. Sam’s holding up a flower. A small white flower, limp and wilting.

Sam points behind him, out on the patio, and Dean follows spotting another flower laying across the threshold. “Think this is the something that came up?” Sam drops the flower back onto the table, lifts his arms and then drops them at his sides. “I mean, it’d have to be, there’s nothing else here. She took everything she needed.”

Dean doesn’t say anything. He’s too busy going over that strange vision, you on the bank, leaving. Leaving a white flower behind. It’s eerie, all of it. Makes his skin shiver over his bones in staunch rejection of this situation.

“Don’t know. Nothing we can do,” Dean mumbles, sulking, because that’s the honest truth. If you wanted or needed their help, you’d still be here. And this is your problem, he doesn’t mean that in a callous way, he’s not being a jerk. He just means this something that came up, is something known only to you, it’s yours in terms of ownership.

It’s something you apparently want to handle on your own, by yourself. And while Dean is incredibly bummed that you had to leave, and he didn’t get to know you better, he’ll let you take off into the breeze.

He rubs the smooth paper of the receipt in his hand with his thumb.

He doesn’t intend to let you become dust in the wind though. No, he’ll put your number in his phone, check in on you later. For now, he’s going to change his clothes, head to the bar, and drink until he forgets what he’s missing.  

Dean claps his hands, breaking the somber ambience. “Well, anyway, we got the rest of the day to kill.” And he leaves the sentence there, hanging between the bed and dresser with possibility but overall defeat, brushes past Sam out the door.


	6. On Wings of Maybe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dragging feet and droopy shoulders, sad lips and long sighs. That's Dean grieving his missed opportunity of spending time with you. The beer just helps it all go down easier...but not for long. He's launched out of his stupor when a tulip mysteriously finds its way to him. He's starting to think that this might be a big deal, and that maybe, just maybe he can justify the end with the means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, i forgot this story was a thing that i started to write. How surprising, i know. Probably isn't the story you were hoping i'd update but too bad.

He’s in town, freshly dressed and sitting at the counter of a bar whose name he didn’t bother noticing. Sam had opted out, though not verbally. By the time Dean got out of the bathroom Sam was face-down on his bed, dead asleep. Regardless of Sam’s absence, Dean planned on going to the bar.

It was a good hunt, it deserved a celebration. That’s what he tells himself as he takes another swig from his beer, ignoring the hungry eyes lined up along the bar trying to get his attention. He’s not here to celebrate, he’s here to mope. And he’s doing quite well.

Right now, he’s imagining how the night would’ve gone if you had stayed. If you were here, you’d both be sitting at a table, not the bar, and he’d have his back to the room so you’d know that all of his attention was on you. He’d make you laugh, at his own expense if necessary, and prop a foot on the bottom rung of your stool, something subtle but formidable once noticed.

The door opens, a gust of cold air from the vents is wafted over him because of the gull from the door. Dean doesn’t pay attention, your face is flashing in his mind, on a loop of laughter and sunny smiles, soft looks. Yeah, you gave him soft looks. Most likely, you didn’t even realize you were doing it, but the longer eye-contact lasted between the two of you, the sweeter it became. Like in the café, and then briefly in the parking lot.

You were beginning to warm up, loosen the nuts and bolts that put you together, and then his stupid brother had interrupted. Dean takes a pouty swallow, places the bottle on the bar, picks it up again. He’s not sure what it is about you that’s got him so wound up, so focused and _wanting_. But he is, ridiculously so.

“At the root of every man’s problem is a woman watering the plant.” Someone next to him says, and Dean grunts, looks over.

A man has plopped himself down in the barstool to Dean’s left, and is nursing a glass of scotch. Strange, Dean didn’t see the bartender come down this way, and just to check and make sure he isn’t completely losing his mind, he swivels his head in the opposite direction.

The bartender, a lightly tattooed brunet, is chatting up a busty blonde at the end of the bar. The man is entranced, totally occupied with her. He’s not stepping away from that section of counter for a long while. Huh, maybe this new guy was sitting at one of the tables before he came over here?

Whatever, doesn’t matter. Dean sighs, picks at the label on his beer. “Can’t really blame the woman for watering the plant if the man put the damn thing in the ground.” Of course, you’re not watering anything, you’re not even here, so this analogy doesn’t mean shit.

The man chuckles, and Dean glances at him again, confused about the lack of features he pulled away the first time. Blue eyes, light blue. Like the sky in summer. “Fair enough. It’s within their nature to nurture and care for unsightly things. And it’s within ours to plant all of our unsightly things within their reach without a thought.” The man waves a hand with a smile, wistful, and Dean stares down at his beer.

Dean wonders what this man is drinking away, what memories are swirling behind his grey…his blue…his green(?) eyes. What-? Why can’t he remember what color this man’s eyes are? He just looked at him. Dean peeks over to check, but the man’s head is bowed, and all Dean can perceive about this stranger is that he has dark hair.

“Well,” the man raises his glass, “To women: unknowingly killing us since time began.” He smiles sardonically, and Dean can appreciate the comment. So, he toasts; clinks his bottle against the man’s glass, and takes a long pull from his beer. He needs another.

Dean leans over the bar, peers past all the cleavage on display for him spilling onto the wood, and sees the bartender with hands braced on the edge of the counter, trying to undress that well-endowed blonde with his eyes. Damn. Guess who’s not getting a tip?

Dean sighs, turns to say something to this man with an eye color he can’t remember, and gawks. He’s gone. Just up and left in the short few seconds Dean had his back turned. Dean twists on his stool, glances over his shoulder at the room full of drunken patrons and doesn’t see the guy anywhere. Weird.

Today has been so weird. Nothing has made sense except for the vamp hunt. Monsters that suck people’s blood. Chop their heads off with a machete. _That_ makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is everything else. You, the way you make him feel, your sudden disappearance, the tulips, that vision he had, the disappearing man.

Shit, he either needs to drink more, or not at all. Guess what he does? He flags down the bartender, orders a shot of whiskey as well as another beer, and settles himself in his stool with his new drinks for the next few minutes. The jukebox changes songs, music cut off in the middle of some lyrics, and a new one starts. The first note rings out, and Dean smiles immediately, recognizing it.

He looks over his shoulder, curious about the person who changed the song, and he squints. It’s that guy from earlier, he’s leaned against the lit-up jukebox, swirling the amber liquid in his glass with a pensive expression on his face. Dean feels wary, his blood itching in some sixth-sense. Something’s off about the man. Not necessarily evil, just different.

Shaking his head, Dean flips his tumbler over, pushes it back. No need to jump the gun just because he has a feeling. Besides, he’s slightly buzzed, judgement could be off. He gets half-way through his beer when nature calls. He slides off his stool, glances at the bar, the bartender chin deep in his endeavor for the evening and then he heads off to the bathroom, Led Zeppelin following him to the hallway before it all becomes quiet.

Dean thinks about texting you right then, seeing if you’re okay. But he stops himself because his blood is just a little bubbly, his demeanor looser than usual, and concedes that it’s a bad idea to communicate with you at all while there’s alcohol in his system. Especially since he can’t get visual stimuli from you, no expressions on your pretty face to tell him when he’s gone too far.

Nah, nope. He’ll wait till morning.

He realizes about a minute later, as he’s washing his hands, that he hasn’t forgotten at all. He’s thought about you this whole time in some way or another. All the alcohol did was make it bearable. He’s okay with that, thinking of you is much better than thinking of anything else he could have lurking at the back of his mind. Even if many things attached to you make him scratch his head, even if you are shrouded in mystery.

He thinks over that receipt, the apology. And then he thinks of the message on the back of it, just for him.

_Dean, sorry I stole today, shot whatever plans you had in the ass. If we see each other again I’ll make it up to you. Call me sometime. Please._

He will call you. Tomorrow. As for plans…he can always make more.

Led Zeppelin is still rolling around the room when he gets back, but the man is nowhere to be seen. Again. Dean shrugs it off, he’s probably just missing him, there are a lot of people crammed in here. Dean intends to finish his beer, tip the bastard bartender and leave. But when he reaches his stool, he goes numb, breath cutting short.

Because there on the bar, next to his half-drunk beer is a white tulip. A fresh, solitary white tulip.

He’s out the door in a rush of fabric and wind, tulip in hand and dread in his chest. His head is a swimming pool of question words: What? How? Who? Why? In alternating order, but he repeats them like a mantra on the way to the motel, and the urge to call you is stronger now. Because that problem that was _your_ problem isn’t just your problem anymore.

And if something makes a hunter run, take off in the middle of the day without a thought like you did, well then you’d better be cautious about that something. Which Dean is. He’s very cautious about it now, and confused.

He wants to know what it means. Surely, it can’t just be a flower. It’s gotta be something else. It has to be something more than what it is.

He skids into the parking lot a few minutes later, yanking the keys from the ignition roughly. Lurches out of the car, slams his door and barges into the room all blustery and full-chested. Sam jolts awake, blinks grouchily at Dean and makes ready to fall back to sleep.

Until something whacks him in the face.

“What?” he growls, sits up, and he spots the tulip next to his pillow. He picks it up with a flat scowl. “ _What_?” he repeats, and Dean puts his hands on his hips.

“That’s mine.” Dean says, nodding at it, mouth firm, and Sam scowls harder, clearly not understanding. So, Dean continues. “It was left on the counter for me when I went to the bathroom.”

Sam sits up straighter, waves the flower a little. “What, at the bar?”

Dean nods, pulls out the chair under the table by the window and sinks down in it. “You know how she ran?” He throws a thumb over his shoulder, alluding to the parking lot and your empty space. Sam nods dully, twirls the tulip. “Think we should?” Dean asks, dropping an arm onto the table.

Sam tilts his head. “Run from what? It’s just a flower.” Even as he says it, something in him goes: _You know better than that._

Dean raises his eyebrows, and then he flaps a hand uselessly, like _B-but. But…_

“Dean, c’mon. You don’t want to run. You just want to run _after_ her.” Sam points out. With the tulip. And Dean glares at it steadfastly.

“I know what it looks like-“

“That you’re completely whipped? Yeah.”

“Fuck you, no. But, you have to admit it’s weird: the two tulips in her room, her sudden evacuation, and then _I_ get a tulip.” Dean lists them off with his fingers, sounding condescending by the end.

Sam sighs loudly, tosses his head back in exasperation. But when Dean continues to glare, to keep his stance firm, Sam relents somewhat. “Fine. Okay. I’ll tell you what: you rule out local flower shops in the area and I’ll take this seriously.”

Dean nods, folds his arms over his chest. “Done. In the meantime, you find a way to track her down.” He orders Sam, certain of his ominous hunch about the tulips. He gets up, thumps his way to his bed where he left his laptop and flops onto the bouncy mattress.

Sam frowns. He had been planning on taking another nap. What did he expect? To actually enjoy his down-time? He hears it again, _You know better than that._ “Yes, I do.” He mutters to himself, and Dean grumbles from his own bed, laptop balanced on his thighs.

“What? You say something?”

“Nope.” Sam says, shaking his head.

Dean squints hard at the back of Sam’s head.

 “…fuck you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any theories about the tulips? Or what they mean? I do still remember that about this story. If you read this far, thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> Penny for your thoughts? If it's anything about What's It To 'Ya? I'm sorry, very. But this new idea dragged all my stories down a dark, dank alley and beat the Hell out of them. I will be seeing you all again, though I can't say when: I am still suffering from allergies and it has taken its toll. Take it easy, lovelies. Life is rough.


End file.
